


House Cat

by babsaros



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU, Canon Compliant, Cohabitation, Domestic Fluff, Episode 80, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babsaros/pseuds/babsaros
Summary: [spoilers for season 2 all the way to season 4]Jon shows up at Martin’s flat after Leitner’s murder, desperate and looking for a place to lie low.Martin reluctantly agrees.canon compliant AU as an excuse to make Jon pay more attention to Martin and force them to cohabitate.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 16
Kudos: 75





	1. A Man on the Run and the Extended Sounds that Led to this

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i started writing this literally a year ago and somewhere along the way fell behind with the podcast and lost motivation to work on this. I'm posting what I have and if people really like it, I'll do my best to write more, bc I do have lots of ideas and I really like the concept. I hope yall like it too!

Jon had never broken into someone’s apartment before. In his defense, he had been hoping to just knock. He’d told them to go home after all (and he couldn’t imagine Martin having that much of a social life, honestly). So when his desperate rapping on the door was met with silence, Jon resorted to… Okay. He’d never broken into someone’s apartment before and he had no idea how to go about this. In the movies, they just smashed a window, or picked the lock, neither of which were an option here. Jon did try the handle, on the off chance that maybe Martin would have left it unlocked, but certain incidents had driven Martin to be extra-cautious about his security. Jon’s palms were sweaty, his hands still shaky from adrenaline that falsely promised to carry him away from the blood splattered wooden boards that truthfully promised to never let the stains fully lift. He braced his shoulder against the door and prayed the noise wouldn’t draw attention from nosy neighbors. 

“J-Jon?” A voice behind him questioned cautiously. Jon froze. He was painfully aware of how this looked. He stepped away from the door and turned, slowly, raising his hands. 

“I know how this looks.”

Martin stood in the middle of the hall, looking from his apartment door to Jon with wide eyes. He clutched a key in his hand, dangling from a keychain of a little white creature labeled a "moomin". His mind raced, and he started, “I, I- I thought you were sick?” Christ, was Jon really a murderer? Had he been coming to kill Martin? And he really thought he would have been able to break the door open? His flat was shitty, but not that shitty. 

“I was! I, uh,” Jon searched. “You didn’t answer, and- I thought there... might be trouble.” 

Martin subtly positioned the key to stick out between his knuckles, like his mother had shown him long ago. “Well… There’s not?” 

“Yes, that’s- that’s good.”

Martin swallowed hard. Jon just stared at him, stared past him down the hall. “Um… So. Why are you… here?” Martin tried to chuckle, but it might have come out more as a whimper. It was uncomfortably hot, but Martin didn’t dare move to take his coat off.

“Oh, yes! I was hoping to, ah, get your help. W-with a case, a, a, a statement!”

Martin’s CV held up better than this. 

“ _My_ help?”

“Yes. You’re... You’re the only one. Who can help, that is.” 

“Right.” 

There was a beat, and then Jon quickly stepped away from the door, gesturing for Martin to come forward. “Ah, sorry! There we go.” He looked expectantly at Martin.

Martin did not want to open the door. Opening the door seemed like the worst idea in the world suddenly. He’d been exhausted and nauseous and worried, and all he had wanted to do was sleep. He didn’t think that was an option anymore. Unwilling, he walked forward and unlocked the door. Jon followed him in. It was dark inside, but Martin didn’t turn on the light. The door shut with a finality that filled him with panic. “Jon…I-” Jon found the lightswitch and Martin jumped. He whirled around. “Jon, please don’t kill me.” He winced, mortified that his last words would be so pathetic.

Jon looked alarmed. “Wha- Oh, Christ. No- No, Martin, I didn’t- I’m not going to.” He dragged a hand down his face.

  
“I- I would be a lot more inclined to believe you, if I hadn't just _caught you_ trying to _break into my flat_!” Martin accused. “And-and- In your office-”

“I didn’t kill him either!”

“That is exactly what a murderer would say!”

“For God’s sake, Martin!” Jon cringed at their volume but continued, “I don’t even have a weapon! I-I’m not exactly going to strangle you!”

Martin bit the inside of his cheek, still tensing and slowly stepping backward. “Okay… Okay. Then why are you here?”

Jon sighs. “I didn’t lie. I need your help.”

“Why me?”

“Because it was either you, or Tim. And I don’t think that would have worked out.”

“Wait, I’m sorry- W-what am I helping you with?”

“Well, everyone is apparently convinced I’m a murderer, so. I can’t- go home. I, I don’t really have anywhere. I’m know I’m not very popular right now.”

“You want me to hide you?” Martin cried, incredulously. 

“Are you saying you won’t?” 

Martin closed his mouth. He took Jon in, fully. Jon always looked exhausted, and more so as of late, but… There was something in his eyes. His clothes were disheveled, yes, and he looked like a dying houseplant that hadn’t seen the sun in days (Martin now knew the feeling). But something in his eyes pained Martin. If Martin refused to help him (the sane, logical thing to do), Jon would be lost and alone, and something in those eyes made Martin want- _need-_ to help him. Martin dropped his guard.

“No. N-no, it’s alright. Um. You can stay.”

Jon softened. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Right. Right.” The weight suddenly hit Martin. “Right!” He turned around and walked further into the flat. It wasn’t large. The kitchen and living room were one, separated only by a counter that had been boasted as a full breakfast bar. His bedroom was off to the side, and he was grateful that he’d shut the door. Most of the apartment was unremarkable. A cheap wooden desk pushed against one wall, a sofa with a quilt draped over the back. A few shelves filled with picture frames, books and knick-knacks. He didn’t have much. Martin was painfully aware of this, of Jon taking all of this in, as he deposited his key on the desk and shrugged off his coat. “Um. Are you.. Hungry?”

“As long as it isn’t canned peaches.” 

The joke goes over Martin’s head for a second. “Oh- oh. No. Ugh, God, no.” He shakes the thought, inextricably tied to worms and witches, and shudders. “Ah- Actually, can you lock that?” He points to the door as he rounds the counter. 

And then they’re waiting, on opposite sides of the kitchen, ready meal packaging neatly collected and disposed of. Martin had tried to sheepishly apologize for having nothing else, but Jon had politely dismissed him, joking that otherwise he probably wouldn’t be eating at all. Martin had laughed weakly. 

“So… What happens?”

"Mm?” Jon had just burned the roof of his mouth eating too quickly, and now he was taking care to blow on each bite. Martin was not eating. 

“I mean, what do we- Who killed him, then? W-we saw, uh, a, a- we saw something, in the tunnels-”

“You followed me?”

“Tim thought you were being suspicious.” 

“Ah.” A wave of guilt washes through him, the thought that he could have gotten them all hurt because he had been so rash. He clears his throat and adds, “Elias”.

“Elias?”

“He- He killed Gertrude. And… Leitner.”

“Wait- Leit- Jurgen Leitner? That- Oh. God.”

“I should- I should explain-”

Martin huffed. 

“I- I found… evidence that Sasha- She hasn’t been Sasha for a long time.” Martin remembers the thing they’d seen, the… SortOfSasha. Jon continues, “And, I thought I knew how to- I was wrong. And then Leitner showed up. He’s been- He had been living in the tunnels. He stopped the… NotSasha. And-And he was giving a statement and I left- I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have left.” Jon repeats, bitterly. For a moment, there’s silence. Jon sighs. “As for what’s next- I don’t know. I’m sorry. I- I need time to figure it out. There are- It’s...”

“It’s okay.” Martin stops him. There’s more he could say. This is enough. Martin knew the pressure and uncertainty of the future. 17-year-old Martin had made himself sick with uncertainty. He’d lived in a constant state of anxiety, alone, every day a struggle to keep hold of the things you loved. This, from here on, they could shoulder together. 

He becomes aware that Jon is staring at him. That he’s been staring at Jon. He flushes and stands quickly. 

“It can wait. I-I’ve, uh, got extra pillows. And such. So.” He shuffled away from the couch, depositing his now-cold food on the kitchen counter before entering the bedroom. He takes a moment to compose himself. Then, he pulls the spare blanket from the closet and grabs a pillow. 

Jon is standing awkwardly when Martin returns. He sets the bedding down and Jon starts, awkwardly, “I don’t suppose… you have a change of clothes I can borrow?” 

“Oh! Uh, yeah.” He manages a nod and returns to the bedroom. He has only a vague idea of the criteria as he rifles through his closet but decides on a dark plum sweater he’d gotten in a thrift shop but hadn’t worn in a while. It’s slightly oversized, and Jon will look nice in it. 

_No. No. The man is a murder suspect, Martin._ _He’s your boss, a wanted fugitive, and he just needs pajamas._

Jon jumps slightly when Martin comes back. He’d wandered from the couch, to clear the dinner mess, and now stood by the desk, examining it’s contents. None of it was inherently private- a beat-up laptop, a cup of fountain pens and a small rainbow-striped flag, a few sheets of handwritten poetry that, well... Jon wasn’t going to criticize. He still felt guilty, however. It was apparent that Martin didn’t have very many visitors, and Jon was aware that this was the only time they had ever met outside of work or related functions. Awkward was a very reserved way of describing it. _And he’d been digging through the man’s trash a week ago…_ He turned back to the couch. Martin was putting down a small bundle of clothing. 

“I think these’ll fit. Oh, and it can get a little cold, so. I brought out a second blanket. I think that’s it?” He looked up at Jon. 

“It- Yes. Yes, that’ll- That’s fine.”

“Righto. Bathroom’s there. If you need anything, I’ll be in here.” Martin started to leave.

“Martin.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Martin gave him a small, sort-of wistful smile. “Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight.”

Martin closes the bedroom door and leans heavily against it. He’s exhausted, and falls asleep nearly as soon as he lays down, but for just a few moments he allows himself this thrill. 

Martin woke in the middle of the night, as he did most nights. Half asleep, he slipped from the bedroom to the kitchen. He retrieved a glass and turned on the tap from muscle memory. 

Something nagged at the back of his mind, and he turned in the dark, trying to think. 

Something was on the couch, staring at him, eyes shining unnaturally.

Martin yelped and the glass of water fell, smashing against the ground. He jumped backward to avoid the shards, and scrambled for the kitchen light. It flicked on. Jon stared at him from the living room, wide-eyed. _Right._ Jon was here now. 

“Good Lord.”

Martin caught his breath. “Wh- Why are your eyes glowing?” 

“What?” 

“Glowing in the dark! Like a- Like a cat!”

Jon blinks. “Are you okay?”

Martin turned the light off. He flicked it on and off a few times, just to be sure. Jon watched this in bewilderment. After a moment, Martin left the light on and, carefully stepping over the glass, marched to the couch and grabbed Jon by the arm. Jon protested, but followed him to the bathroom anyway.  
“Martin, are you sure-” Jon started, but Martin positioned him in front of the mirror. “Oh.”

“See!” Martin turned the light on, but Jon reached past him and flipped it off again.

“That… is new.” 

“Why-”

“I have no earthly clue.”

“Oh. Okay then.” Martin stares at Jon, who stares at himself. Then he remembers the broken glass and grumbles softly, sliding past Jon. It only takes a few minutes to sweep into a dustpan, but he still mourns the loss. Jon emerges from the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. 

He does look nice in that sweater. 

“You’re not a ghost, are you?”

Jon gives him a withering glare. “No, I’m not- Ah, ah careful!” He stuck a hand out and Martin froze. 

“What, what is it?”

“You missed a piece. Here.” Jon pointed to where Martin had been about to step and crossed the room. He crouched, picking up a piece of glass and dropped it onto the dustpan with a _clink_. He stepped away, quickly, before Martin had time to appreciate the closeness. Jon glanced around the rest of the floor before he was satisfied that it was actually clear. He nodded, and Martin dumped the pan into the trash. 

“Sorry about that.” They both stared solemnly into the bin.

Martin sighed, almost a yawn, and shook his head. “S’okay. Just not used to having anyone sleeping on my couch. Especially not… well.” Jon wasn’t entirely sure if Martin was referring to his eyes or something else. 

He straightened up and started to walk back to the couch before turning around. He hesitated before asking, “Do… Do they look different? In the light? My eyes, I mean.”

Martin squinted and stepped closer.

Vulnerability.

That was the look he’d seen in Jon’s eyes before. It was more than exhaustion, more than shock and fear. The walls of paranoia had cracked, his defenses had fallen, and he had nothing. And he had come to Martin. He’d let Martin in. He-

He had very nice eyes. 

“No. Nope. Very normal.” He said quickly, and looked away. 

“Oh. T-that’s good, then.”

“Yes, I suppose. Er, back to bed then.” He managed.

Jon cleared his throat and nodded, turning away and leaving Martin to retreat to the bedroom.

For some reason, Jon found it very hard to fall back asleep.


	2. Easy Lying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your support so far! I'll admit i posted the first chapter without much proofreading, so if there's any mistakes feel free to point them out so I can fix them! I did polish up this chapter a bit though, and I definitely feel like I'm getting some motivation to continue working on this! anyway i hope you like it!!

After being awoken so easily in the night, Jon wasn’t sure how he slept through Martin leaving in the morning. Maybe the sleepless weeks had caught up with him. Maybe last night’s terror and exertion had ground him to a halt. It’s well past 9am by the time he did finally wake up. A warm light just barely seeped through cracks in the blinds, so the flat was dim but… cozy. He didn’t move for a long time, sleepily cracking his eyes and staring at the dust that floats lazily through the air. The quiet stillness rested over him, wrapping him, settling into the patches of the warm quilt, and he felt at ease for the first time in a very long time. And then it wore off, and the quiet began to grate on his paranoia. 

He tossed off the quilt and sat up, struggling to adjust to his surroundings in the light of day. He wanted to reach for his phone, but he had thrown it onto the train tracks of the underground somewhere last night, unable to shake the feeling that the tiny camera had been watching him. The only thing he had left were his glasses. He picked them up from the coffee table, and tried to wipe a smudge from one lense. After a moment, he stood and wandered the flat.

He found a note stuck to the door. 

_ “Jon, gone to work. Help yourself to the kitchen (I’ll go shopping soon).” _ And then under that, scribbled as an afterthought,  _ “Just keep the door locked.” _

Jon furrowed his brow. He wasn’t keen on being cooped up all day, but didn’t suppose he had a choice at the moment. He shuddered, remembering that Martin had also been trapped in this flat at one point. He resolved not to fall into boredom. At the very least, he could spend the day praying Martin would be able to keep it together and would prove to be a better liar than he might seem. 

Martin was very good at lying. He had been keeping up several very elaborate lies his entire life.

  1. He did not miss his father.
  2. He was qualified for this job. (this lie had started as a small thing and was quickly growing out of hand, though he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore if he got fired for harboring a suspected murderer...)
  3. He did not have feelings for Jonathan Sims. (This was a private lie, screamed inward.)



None of this helped to dispel the anxiety that wound in knots in his stomach. He grit his teeth as he swung open the heavy front door of the Magnus Institute, doing his best to remain calm. This calm was all but wiped away with a cold sweat as he saw Detective Daisy Tonner. Hell, she would have looked scary just standing around waiting for the tube, although Martin couldn’t picture her doing something so mundane. No, Daisy was here to investigate. And she didn’t look very happy about it. 

He set his bag down in the front office, watching a few other police officers as they went about, meticulously searching the Archives for evidence. He tried not to wonder if the body was still here.

“They were here before I was. Might have been here all night.” Tim appeared beside him, speaking, his tone somewhere apathetic and dejected. He had his hands pushed deep into his pockets, a slump in his shoulders. 

Martin smiled nervously. “Oh, uh, good morning.” Tim gave him a leer and Martin swallowed hard. He quickly continued, “H-Have they found anything? Uh, yet?”

Tim sighed. “Don’t know. Think she wants to talk to us though.”

“A-about what? She listened to the tape right?” Panic rose in his chest. Nobody knew about Jon. There was no way anyone had already found out.  _ He hoped. _

Tim just shook his head and shrugged. Martin suddenly felt very disconnected from him. Not 24 hours had passed since they had been trapped together, and now so much had changed. They were the only ones left, but they were divided and Tiim didn’t even know. For a brief, torturous second, Martin wanted to tell him. 

_ Actually, Tim, this is all okay, because Jon told me he isn’t a murderer and I’m letting him stay in my flat. Would you be so kind as to not immediately tell the scary detective? Cheers!  _

He suppressed a guilty cringe and held his tongue. Tim had said something Martin didn’t catch and walked off, probably to stand around and look grim. Martin took a breath. Today was going to be difficult.

He headed upstairs to make tea. 

Jon didn’t feel like making breakfast. The act seemed superfluous, and strangely… invasive. He resisted the parasitic thought. Martin had let him stay, had invited him to stay. There was no reason to feel so out of place. So he stood in the kitchen and ignored the bitter taste creeping down his throat, ignored the itch in his fingers that compelled him to do something more important. At the very least, he could manage tea. 

(This was a strong assumption, seeing as Martin was the only one who ever made tea for the office, and Jon never drank tea outside of work.) 

It wasn’t that Jon was a hopeless mess. He was just a little bit terrible at taking care of himself. Even beyond the late nights researching, when he forgot to eat at all, he was prone to kitchen accidents. The days he came into the office, shirt ironed and shoes laced neatly, with  _ real, actual _ food packed for lunch, were days that took an enormous amount of planning and effort. He’d despaired over his dysfunctions and fixations when he was younger, especially in school. And then had come a very blessed diagnosis and his grandmother had added picking up a prescription of Adderall to her list of errands. He had since lapsed that regime, but his dysfunction had clearly never ceased. Truly, the boredom was going to be the worst part of his fugitivity. 

Martin dodges the question, stalling as he attempts to get a hold of himself. Daisy looked like she wanted to punch him as soon as he turned on the tape recorder. Still, Martin has nearly mastered the art of avoidance. He’s a bit annoyed at her jeering dismissal of the tape, dissolving his hope of easily giving her new suspects. She doesn’t need his suspects, though.

“Well, if your witnesses appear back in this universe, maybe the situation will change. Otherwise, it’s an easy choice: answer my question or I pin it on you.” She leans forward on the desk, staring him down. 

His blood runs cold. She didn’t even know he was helping Jon. He wasn’t going to get arrested for aiding and abetting. She wasn’t even going to try at obstruction of justice. Detective Daisy Tonner was going to jump straight to framing him. There was suddenly so much more at stake than just losing his job. 

Full operational discretion. Martin wasn’t sure exactly what that entailed, but he didn’t like the look in her eye when she growled it. 

It would be useless to try to argue Jon’s innocence. It might be useless to help him altogether. He could confess, right now. Save himself. Dear god, he wanted to save himself so badly, from all of this, from the fear. And maybe Jon would be okay! Maybe it would all work out anyway. He didn’t need to take this burden on. 

He paused. 

“I don’t know.” He lied. Martin was very good at lying. 

He manages to be out of sight when Elias is called in. He’s worried that otherwise, Elias will be able to see right through him, Knowing what Martin now knows.

He distracts himself from the crime scene by trying to pick up the pieces of what he’d been working on two days ago, but it just doesn’t fit right into his head anymore. He reads the same sentences, sentences that he wrote, over and over again but can’t make himself understand what the words mean. Eventually he gives up, cradling a mug and staring absently into the hallway, watching people pass every so often. Daisy had exited the office after talking to Elias, pale and filled with barely restrained fury, and snapped at everyone to start clearing out. 

He’d tried and failed to have a conversation with Tim, to subtly convince him that  _ maybe _ Jon was innocent, but Tim didn’t care. Martin had dropped it. 

Every so often, he glanced at the clock. He was anxious to get home. He hadn’t known whether to wake Jon before leaving, but he had looked so calm and untroubled, Martin would have felt cruel to disturb that. He was worried, however, about what Jon would get up to without supervision. Not that he didn’t trust the man, it was just… well. There wasn’t exactly a method to his madness, at least as far as Martin could see. He couldn’t picture Jon sitting still and behaving properly all day. He could, however, picture his flat burned to the ground and a remorseless Jon waiting to lecture Martin for leaving him alone in the first place. 

A conversation in the hall drew his attention. An officer walked by, holding a black satchel Martin recognized as something Jon had begun taking to work lately, hiding it in his office where he thought no one would notice. He really had been oblivious in paranoia. The officer mentioned tagging it for evidence and Martin lurched. He stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping backwards harshly.

“T-That’s mine- Actually.” He gulped. One lie was risky. Two lies was stupid. Was he begging to be caught?

“Is it?” Daisy took the bag from the officer and stepped into the doorway. Martin steeled himself. 

“It’s just- Just dirty laundry, really. Um. F-from when I used to… live here. A little bit ago.” It’s an embarrassing lie, but Daisy already thinks badly of him. Honestly, it probably  _ really is  _ only dirty laundry. He hopes. Martin did hear they found an axe in Artefact Storage…

After a moment of blasé inspection, Daisy makes an unimpressed noise and dumps the bag in the doorway. Martin exhales with relief as she walks away and hurries to snatch it up. He wanted the bag, not just in case it contained something incriminating, but also for his own curiosity. He did believe Jon wasn’t a murderer now ( _ 99% sure _ , at least), but he wouldn’t be surprised if Jon had been doing other questionable things after hours. Jesus, that made it sound like he thought Jon was on drugs. No, just in the same way Martin had been embarrassed to explain the corkscrew under his pillow, there was something in that bag that would be equally unpleasant.

Or it could just be an unwashed pair of slacks. Martin sighed, and slid the bag under his desk. 

Jon had  _ tried _ to just sit still and relax. He’d made a very valiant effort. The problem was that it was too damn quiet. It would seem Martin had managed to find the one flat in all of London that was completely soundproof. Even his legs bouncing rapidly as he sat on the sofa barely made a noise thanks to the plush blue rug underneath the sofa. The tea had gone cold by now, not that it had been worth drinking. He stood and paced the flat, willing all of his attention toward counting the steps. When that failed, he took down the small collection of books and read through what he could (a collection of Keats and a few amateur poet zines), as the silence made it hard to concentrate. He did keep the door locked, as Martin had requested, but it did little to quell his paranoia. 

It was watching.

He snapped the book shut with a loud  _ clap _ , breaking the silence. Damn it all, but he had to do  _ something. _

To his relief (and surprise), Martin’s flat seemed to be in one piece. As he opened the door, he nearly called out for Jon, but he caught himself. Holding his breath, he quickly locked the door and leaned heavily against it. There was a thud from the kitchen, followed by a muttered “Ow”. Martin started forward, alarmed. 

“Jon?”

“Ah!” Jon’s head popped up from behind the counter. “Ah- You’re home.”

The way he said that made Martin’s heart flutter. Of course, Jon didn’t mean it like that. This was Martin’s home, not  _ theirs _ . “Uh, is everything alright?” He glanced around nervously. Something was off. 

“Well, I, I, I wasn’t sure when you’d be back. And I didn’t have anything… to… do.” He looks rather sheepish. 

The books on Martin’s shelf have been reorganized by color. And, yes, someone had cleared the clutter from his desk. Slowly, he picks up these minute changes, scanning the room until he comes back to Jon. 

“Oh. You, uh. You cleaned up.” He thought for a moment of making a joke about finally seeing why Jon got hired to be the Head Archivist, but decided it probably wasn’t as funny as he thought. He wasn’t sure what else to say. It’s not exactly bad, not at all disastrous. But it certainly wasn’t what he expected. Jon wearing his sweater, standing in the kitchen and rearranging the cupboards felt… domestic, uncomfortably so. 

“I can put it all back.” 

Martin spluttered. “Are you joking?” He laughed after a moment and admitted, “I- I was afraid I’d come home to a smoldering wreck!”

Some of the tension in Jon’s shoulders dissipated. “I wasn’t sure- I mean, I don’t really have any other way to repay you. And I… I was very bored.” Jon grimaced. Martin smiled, fighting to keep his fondness hidden. He tore his gaze from the purple knit that brings out Jon’s eyes in such a lovely way, and glanced around again. A sudden thought struck him. 

“Um, Jon… You didn’t- Er, you didn’t clean anything in the bedroom, right?”

Jon was quick to reassure him, throwing up his hands. “No, no. Just- Just in here.”

“Ah, good then. Right.” Martin flushed and cleared his throat. He stepped forward and began to take off his coat before remembering the bag he held. “Oh! Uh, I found this. Well, the detectives found it. Thought you might like to have it, though.” He offered forth the satchel and Jon craned his neck to see before recognition lit up his face. Swiftly, Jon made his way across the room, taking the bag. He set it down on the couch, the bedding neatly folded. Martin draped his coat on the back of the couch and peered over as Jon opened the bag. 

It did appear to be mostly a change of clothes (thankfully free of blood stains). However, Jon dug past the rumpled button-down and pulled out several items of various concern: a flashlight with a handful of spare batteries, a squashed carton of cigarettes that Jon quickly shoves back into the bag as if ashamed, a miniature camera, and an alarming pocket knife, though closer inspection would determine it unfit for anything more than looking intimidating, but even that would be questionable in Jon’s hands. As these objects were strewn about the couch cushions, it became clear this was Jon’s collection of exploratory gear. Martin quickly banished the memory of the tunnels, and focused on Jon’s hands. He had rather thin fingers, with nicely squared nails. His hands seemed like they’d be warm, which was a ludicrous notion. Jon, for his part, didn’t notice Martin observing as he tucked everything back into the satchel. It wasn’t much, but he was glad to have a change of clothes at the very least, suddenly self-conscious of the ill-fitting pajama pants he still wore. He made a vain effort to smooth out the hem of his sweater and spoke. “How, uh. How is everything, then?”

Martin jolted from his daydream of intertwined fingers and winced. “Well… They’ve given the case to Basira’s partner- er, former partner? Um, Daisy? She- She doesn’t like it. Certainly doesn’t seem to like you…”

“No, I don’t suppose many people do now.” He peeked at Martin as he pretended to fiddle with the buckle on a strap of the satchel. The other man was staring away, thoughtfully. He didn’t seem to register what Jon said. Jon bit back a long overdue apology. It was pointless to mope. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t see Elias, but Daisy talked to him. Or, he said something to her? I don’t know, it was- I don’t think she likes him either.”

Jon hummed in response. 

Martin sighed and picked up his coat. Jon moved the bag to the floor and sat on the couch in its place, craning his neck over the back to watch Martin as he spoke. “And Tim, of course, he’s not-” Martin cut off, grimacing. Jon frowned at the floor. He wished he hadn’t let things get so bad with Tim. Martin hung his coat by the door and turned to stand in the middle of the room, not quite looking at Jon. “U-Um, anyway. I’m going to the shop tomorrow. If- if there’s anything you need, or want, we can make a list. Or, you can make a list, or-” His gaze fell on the desk again and he paused. The mess of loose paper that once graced its surface had been neatly filed into piles depending on their contents. He managed to squeak, “Did you read any of that?” Martin wasn’t a very outgoing poet. Even his mother rarely got to read his work. 

Jon made a vaguely repentant noise, which sounded more like he wasn’t actually repentant at all. “Ah, yes. I did sort it as best I could. Your mail is in the drawer now, or else I might have read that, too” He joked. Okay, maybe Martin did need to establish some boundaries. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jon carried on, “The rough drafts, as far as I could figure, are to the left and the more polished pieces- the ones with titles, at least- are on the right. You wrote all of that? It’s not bad.”

Could it be? Real actual praise?  _ From Jon?  _ “Wait, what?”

“I mean, you’re- you're not the next Poe, but it was… refreshing? I- I enjoyed some of it.” He shuts his mouth, afraid he’s said something wrong. Martin looks at him in disbelief.    


“I- Really? Huh. Um… Did you have a favorite?”

Jon blew out a breath and searched the air. “The, uh, The one about- I believe it was about Prentiss? Um. Yes, you- you captured it nicely. Very grotesque.”

“Corkscrew.” Martin reminded him of the title.    


He shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. That one.”

A bashful, morbid grin crept across Martin’s face. He completely forgot his indignation for privacy’s sake. “Well, T-thank you.” He ducked his head and walked to the kitchen, his chest warm. 

Jon continued to stare at the desk and called over his shoulder, “Say, Martin. Speaking of your poetry, I- I don’t suppose you still have a tape recorder?” 

Martin made a questioning sound as he rifled through the cupboards. 

“I want to record something,” Jon replied absentmindedly. 

“Making a statement?” 

“...Yes, actually.”   
  


That night, long after dinner had been cleared away and Martin had scolded Jon for not eating all day, after explaining how to make tea and do laundry, and Martin had quietly bid him goodnight, Jon turned on a tape recorder. It feels like years since the last time he did so. He gathered his thoughts. In one hand, he clutched a mug of Sleepytime and let the smell of chamomile and mint calm him. 

He told the story of Mr. Spider. 

And Martin pretended not to hear through the bedroom door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all again! if you liked this chapter please consider leaving kudos or a comment, it would really make my day!!

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this!! if you did, please consider commenting and leaving kudos! Nice comments mean the world to me and will definitely encourage me to work on this. thank you!!


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